Are you watching?
by Grayfang
Summary: Post TDK. What happens when another wild card is thrown into the game for Gotham's soul? OC and Joker - NOT a romance. R
1. Chapter 1

**_Okay – this is my first shot at fanfic in general, so R&R is appreciated. Please leave constructive criticism, creative flames, or just awesome reviews. You won't meet my OC for a few chapters, and I promise it'll get more interesting._**

**_AND - since this is the first thing I've ever posted on this website, it'll probably change every few hours till I figure out what the fuck I'm doing._**

**_I own nothing that sounds familiar. _**

Jim Gordon took a deep, calming breath before knocking on the door of the mayor's office. He wasn't looking forward to explaining how little progress had been made regarding the kidnapping of the mayor's personal assistant. It had been two days since Ellen had disappeared, and there were still no leads, no evidence, and no demands. Truth be told, the only evidence that she had been kidnapped was a short phone call the mayor had made when she failed to show up for work.

The mayor had called her cell phone. After five rings a woman answered, but it wasn't Ellen. According to the mayor, the voice had fluctuated between high pitched like a girl's and a low growl. When Gordon heard this, he had tried to imagine a feminine version of Batman's rough growl. The woman had told the mayor that Ellen was "going to be tied up for a few days." The last thing Anthony Garcia had heard was Ellen's scream mixed with a crazy laughter so similar to the Joker's that his blood ran cold.

"Come in," the mayor's voice spoke up on the other side of the door. Gordon put on an expression that he hoped looked confident and reassuring, and stepped into the office. Anthony Garcia looked up from his desk; Gordon could tell the past few days had taken their toll. The dark circles under his eyes and his worried expression aged the man a good 15 years. "Gordon," Garcia said, his voice forcibly neutral. "Please tell me you have some good news." The mayor's face darkened as Gordon shifted uneasily.

"Nothing yet," Gordon admitted. "We've been through Ellen's apartment twice sweeping for prints, but there's nothing. We have eyewitnesses claiming she came home, but none of her leaving or any trace of a struggle. We've gone through her family, friends, coworkers; no one has any information. It's like she just vanished."

Garcia struggled not to point out that people don't just vanish. Ellen had been a dear friend as well as a damn good assistant; the young woman was like family. "And you're sure this has nothing to do with the Joker?" he demanded. Gordon shook his head.

"Even if the Joker wanted to arrange this from Arkham, he's miked and watched 24/7," Gordon said with a frown. The truth of the matter was that aside from scaring the crap out of everybody at the asylum and stabbing a guard in the eye with a plastic fork, the clown had been relativly well behaved. Of course, compared to his usual activities, a hungry, rabid wolverine could be called 'relatively well-behaved.'

"What about batman? Any leads on him?" Garcia demanded next. Gordon struggled not to roll his eyes. In the last few weeks Garcia had been overly-eager to blame Batman for everything from murder to his coffee being too cold. It didn't matter that the voice had been distinctly female, or that Batman had always worked alone; Garcia still insisted the caped crusader had something to do with it.

Searching for Gotham's Dark Knight made Gordan sick. He had tried to avoid any real investigating for the first week after Harvey's demise. Smashing the 'bat-signal' and the press confrence was just fluff to keep Garcia and the press happy. Batman had noticed, and in an unexpected meeting that nearly gave Gordon a heart attack, told Gordon that he couldn't just fake a search.

Gordon couldn't tell the mayor that at the last Batman related scene they had checked over Batman had left clues to let the comissioner know that he was conducting his own investigation on Ellen's disappearance.

"My teams are still sweeping through the last…" Gordon's voice died off as something behind Garcia caught his eye.

"What is it?" Garcia demanded as the comissioner made his way around the desk and towards a large fake plant that decorated that corner of the office. The mayor edged his way closer, but Gordon motioned for the other man to stay back. There was definitly something in that plant – something that looked curiously like…

"A grenade?" Gordon said to himself in disbelief. He reached for it, but something told his hand to stop. A moment later her saw it; the wire that attatched the pin to the branches of the plant. A careless rustle of the thing would disloge the pin. Gordon quickly backed up, shouting into his walkie-talkie while pushing the mayor into the hall.

Ten minutes later the office was swarming with cops and specialty teams while Gordon consulted with one of his Lieutenants.

"The security teams found nothing on tape. We're still getting stories, but I don't think anyone who works here planted it," Lt. Lisa Monroe said. Gordon nodded wearily as one of the men working on extracting the explosive joined them.

"Sir, we found this attached to the pin," he said as he handed Gordon a Polaroid photo. Gordon froze; it was Ellen. The young woman was bound, gagged, and sitting the back seat of a police cruiser. Gordon turned the photo over. The picture was dated and captioned as if it were of a family vacation.

_Ellen Marie Kensel – Rosenthorn Building, Roof_

The date matched today's date, and the time…was twenty minutes from now.

Gordon began shouting orders and yelling for officers to follow him as he dashed to the stairs, silently thanking the building planner for putting the mayor's office ony five stories from the roof.

Bursting through the door that lead to the roof a few moments later, Gordon ran towards the parked cruiser. He'd worry about how the hell a car got onto the roof of the building without anyone noticing later. Right now the main concern was the dark lump in the back seat of the car that didn't seem to be moving. Throwing open the door to the cruiser, Gordon stepped aside to let two officers lift Ellen's covered, limp form from the 

car and carry her to the medical team waiting. Gordon's attention was on Ellen, so he didn't notice two officers pop the trunk of the car. He didn't see the timer counting down to the time marked on the photograph. And he missed the scared exclamation of "Oh Shit!" as they tried to run away.

He did notice the massive explosion that tore the car apart a second later. The fireball consumed half the roof and a half dozen officers along with it. Gordon felt the back of his clothes singe as he planted himself firmly between the explosion and the medical team. He found himself looking directly into Ellen's face and his blood ran cold. She had been dead for hours, by the looks of it; there was no way someone could look like that and survive. The back of Ellen's skull had been bashed in; her cheeks had been cut out leaving gaping holes that lead directly into her mouth; her eyes were gone.

An hour later Gordon numbly handed a GCN reporter a copy of the tape found on Ellen's body under the pretense that the public had the right to know about a new local terrorist. He just hoped that Batman was one of the 'public' watching the news.


	2. Chapter 2

**Okay – a few things before the second chapter. **

**First – many thanks to those who have reviewed and added my story to their alert list. **

**Second – just so you're warned – this whole story is really me challenging myself to be as deranged and sick as possible, so if you have any ideas, lemme know. **

**Third – I didn't really like Batman in TDK, so I'm not sure how in-character he is (don't worry - no character bashing.) Actually, I don't know how in character any of them are – even the ones I made up!**

**Blah-blah-blah – I own nothing – blah-blah-blah.**

Batman was indeed watching the news, though at the moment he looked more like a billionaire playboy getting ready to go out for dinner.

Bruce Wayne was standing in his walk-in closet, looking for the jacket he was going to wear that night while practicing his 'bored billionaire' expression. It was an expression that he'd perfected through practice, but it still felt unnatural.

"Sir," the voice of his manservant and friend, Alfred, called out from the bedroom. "You might want to take a look at this." Bruce exited the closet to find Alfred studying the television where Bruce had left the news on. SkyCam footage of the roof of the Rosenthorn Building showed the remains of a police cruiser and a dozen civil servants putting out fires and searching for evidence. The footage cut back to the anchorman. A picture of a woman Bruce recognized appeared to the left of the anchorman's head.

"Found in the car was the body of Ellen Kensel, assistant to Mayor Garcia, who had been kidnapped two days earlier."

Bruce crossed the room in three long strides and positioned himself in front of the giant screen. Ellen's disappearance had been his highest priority the past two nights, but he had found nothing to help in the police's search. Even the six bodies found in the river yesterday had presented more questions than answers. Forensics was able to identify all the bodies found as small-time criminals for hire. Their prints matched prints found near Ellen's apartment, but inside there were no prints at all. Whoever they had been working for was still out there.

"The police commissioner has just released this video found on the victim's body," the anchorman said, drawing Bruce's full attention back to the television. "Viewers may want any children to leave the room; the image is disturbing."

The picture cut to an image of a dark room lit only by a singe overhead light. Ellen sat in a chair directly under the light, bound and gagged. The tape began to play and Bruce's ears were filled with suppressed giggling and the muffled noises Ellen was making under her gag. The woman's eyes were wide with fear as they roamed around slowly; Bruce realized she was watching her kidnapper.

"Goood ev-ening, and welcome to tonight's lit-tle show. I hope, uh, Garcia doesn't mind, but I borrowed his lil' go-fer to be my special guest." The voice coming from the shadows was distinctly female, but it was low and sounded almost bored. Ellen's eyes trailed to her left side, then centered again; her capturer was directly behind her.

"I gotta say; I'm a tad, uh, disappointed. Here I am, just looking for a little fun, but I'm so…bored. That won't do, Gotham. That won't do at all." A pale hand reached out of the shadows and stroked Ellen's face with almost a lover's tenderness. The hand's partner appeared in the other side of Ellen's face, holding a switchblade. The knife's edge caressed the woman's cheek leaving a paper thin red trail. Ellen's eyes, if possible, got wider, and she tried to jerk her head away. The empty hand caught her chin and held it still.

"Careful there, you, uh, wouldn't want to poke your eye out, would you?" The speaker's tone changed a bit as the knife's point came to a stop right at the corner of Ellen's eye. The voice was filled with barely contained excitement as the gagged woman began fidgeting even more, her eyes filled with desperation.

"Tonight's entertainment will involve a small slight of hand," the voice continued, becoming more and more excited as the hands caressing Ellen's face changed positions. Their owner rotated around the frightened woman until the screen was filled with an out of focus, fuzzy black blur. A horrific pain-filled scream filled the room and lingered for a full five minutes before a loud CRACK silenced it. The torturer rotated out of the camera's view again.

Ellen was slumped in the chair. Her hair hung in front of her face, but couldn't quite hide the blood gushing from the raw, empty sockets that once had held bright green eyes. The pale fist appeared again over Ellen's unconscious head, accompanied by a suppressed giggle, like someone trying not to laugh at a joke while they tell it.

"So, ladies and, uh, gentlemen; did you see it?" the fist opened and two objects fell down, only to bounce on some sort of tether line.

Bruce looked away as a high pitched, hysterical laugh filled his ears, but it didn't matter. The image of two bloody eyeballs dangling from their optic nerves was already engrained in his mind. The insane, bone-chilling laughter cut suddenly as Alfred turned off the television. The silence was deafening; neither man knew what to say.

Finally, Alfred cleared his throat. The sound snapped Bruce back to reality and he absent-mindedly readjusted his cuffs.

"When are you supposed to meet Miss Katherine?" Alfred asked, reminding Bruce of his night out. It was hard to imagine that after that broadcast, he still had to put on a playboy persona through dinner. Bruce checked his watch quickly.

"Half an hour, but I think our night will need to be cut short. Alfred, have you seen my-?" Bruce stopped talking as Alfred held out the missing jacket, which he had in fact been holding the entire time. "Thanks," he said as he slid into it. "Don't wait up," he added as he disappeared behind elevator doors.

later that night

Batman waited in the shadows of the Rosenthorn roof, watching the few lingering officers milling through the remains of the explosion. His eyes were on Gordon, who was telling the others to call it a night. Bruce had noticed the anchorman's words before showing the tape; the _commissioner_ had released it. Gordon had been hoping Batman had been watching.

Soon the commissioner was alone, fists on his hips, just staring at the wreckage. Batman slid from the shadows, making a point to make enough noise to alert Gordon to his presence. Gordon didn't move; he was used to Batman appearing and disappearing at random. Batman approached until he was standing just over the commissioner's shoulder.

"Anything?" he growled. Gordon shook his head. Every time Batman saw the older man he looked more weary and tired.

"Every scrap of forensic evidence we've found has lead directly to another dead body. We didn't even know this cruiser was missing. If I didn't know he was chained to a wall in Arkham, I'd say the Joker outdid himself." Gordon sighed and kicked a loose stone into the charred remains of the cruiser. Batman's eyes followed the stone and something clicked in his brain. Moving around Gordon, he ran his hand along the spot where part of the cruiser's number was still visible. "What-?" Gordon started but fell silent when Batman let out a low growl.

"Even if he's in Arkham, he's involved in this somehow," Batman growled quietly.

"How can you tell?" Gordon demanded. Batman pointed to the remaining digits of the serial number. The commissioner's heart stopped. "This was cruiser 4165…" he managed to get out.

"And the Joker is held in cell 165 on the fourth floor of Arkham," Batman finished.


	3. Chapter 3

**We'll try bold for my A/N this time around. I would have finished this yesterday, but my roommate lent me her copy of Breaking Dawn, so I had to stay up all night reading that. grumble grumble**

**Anyways – continued thanks to **_**kagedfox**_** and **_**lildropofsunshine**_** for subscribing and reviewing. You should all strive to be more like them. At least let me know if my portrayal of Joker is way off.**

**Fans of Firefly might notice my not-so-suttle tribute.**

**And on with the show…. I own nothing that isn't mine**

Despite what anyone else might have thought, the Joker remained completely ignorant the fun happening outside of Arkham until the next day. Since the incident with the plastic fork three weeks ago he hadn't been allowed outside of his cell except for his twice-a-week sessions with a psychologist, and there he was shackled and strapped down so well he could barely wiggle his toes. Even when his meals were brought to his cell, what appeared to be a small SWAT team assembled to watch his every move. Safe to say that he couldn't exactly watch the news or read the paper.

The Joker was therefore surprised when an _actual_ SWAT team assembled outside his cell, lead by the police commissioner. It wasn't time for a meal, and his last session with his latest doctor had been yesterday.

Just the thought of his last 'therapy' session sent him into a fit of hysterics. Dr. Forest had been forced to end the session early due to a nervous breakdown caused by the Joker's recital of every semi-major vein in the human body and how long it would take a person to bleed to death if severed. All in all, the Joker was quite pleased with his track record; in his four weeks as a patient of Arkham, he'd gone through seven doctors, and the one that had attempted a second session was currently occupying her own padded cell.

The Joker wondered when he would finally get bored enough to break out.

Right – back to the SWAT team.

"Against the wall, clown," barked the asylum security guard that accompanied the police. The Joker didn't bother moving; he still was laughing too hard to breath properly. Gordon signaled for the security guard to open the cell regardless. A moment later the small cell was filled with officers, each with a gun pointed at the Joker.

He offered no resistance as his arms were forced into the straitjacket before he was lead down the hallways; he was curious as a kitten on crack why the commissioner was dragging him out of his cell. The little parade stopped once they reached one of the interview rooms. These rooms were stark and plain with usually only a table and two chairs as furnishings. This room also had a small TV.

Gordon stood by the TV while the Joker was being tied down to a chair that was bolted to the floor. When the officers were done they filed out, leaving them alone. For a moment they studied each other; Gordon's weary, stern frown opposed to the Joker's bored smile.

"Ya know, commissioner, other, uh, visitors usually bring gifts when they, uh, come to see the _patients_. You could have brought my, my, uh, my _face_," the Joker said, cracking a huge momentary grin than stretched the scars on his cheeks. The only thing the Joker had requested (and been denied) since he was admitted had been his face paint. Gordon's eyes glanced at the scars, which put a smirk on the Joker's lips.

The Joker knew what he looked like without the paint. He knew that even without it his lips were red and chapped from his habit of licking them and the circles around his eyes were dark purple from his lack of sleep. It almost gave the illusion that the painted face was hidden under a layer of flesh makeup. He was very aware that as frightening as his painted face was, his bare face was almost as frightening because, if nothing else, it proved that it was a man terrorizing Gotham.

Gordon, however, refused to be sidetracked. How bo-ring.

"Did you have anything to do with the murder of Ellen Kensel?" Gordon said stiffly. The Joker cocked an eyebrow in fake interest as his tongue darted along the corner of his mouth.

"You know," he said in reply, "De_spite_ what you people think, I'm not the, uh, the _root_ of chaos; I just play the game." Gordon didn't let himself believe the bored tone and expression; the Joker excelled at mind games and deception. Instead he pushed a button on the TV and let the recording of yesterday's newscast play.

"This just in; police responding to a threat on the Mayor Garcia's life uncovered a clue which lead to the discovery of police cruiser 4165 on the roof of the Rosenthorn building," The anchorman on the screen said with a concerned expression on his face. "The car exploded minutes after being discovered, taking the lives of several officers and injuring several more. We now take you live to the scene."

The Joker didn't exactly perk up, but as the picture of the news studio cut to an image of the roof of the building where the still smoking car sat his lips pulled into an almost pleased grin. Chaos always delighted him, even if he wasn't the one causing it. He felt Gordon watching him carefully as the screen cut back to the anchorman.

"Found in the car was the body of Ellen Kensel, assistant to Mayor Garcia, who had been kidnapped two days earlier."

The image or name of the victim didn't mean anything to the Joker, but he perked up at the mention of a disturbing video. Gordon stopped the tape just as the dark room with Ellen tied to the chair came into view. His mildly interested smile turned downwards into a slight frown.

"Now why do I get the feeling that you stopped it just when it was going to get, uh, _exciting_?" he said with mild disappointment. The fact that Gordon had stopped it made him all the more curious, but the commissioner pushed the TV cart away and sat down in the other chair.

"Again, did you have anything to do with Ellen's death?" Gordon asked. The Joker raised an eyebrow in an expression that indicated that was the dumbest question ever asked, glanced down at his securely fastened straitjacket, than looked back at Gordon.

"Does it look like I get out much?" he asked in a voice that mimicked his face.

--

As the guards lead him back to his cell, the Joker had something to entertain himself with. He had realized the significance of the cruiser's number the instant the anchorman mentioned it, of course. That was a clue too obvious to be meant for him; it had been left for Gordon and Batsy. Hell, he'd bet money Batsy had been the one to put the pieces together; Gordon wasn't that bright.

The human body could be drained of blood in 8.6 seconds given adequate vacuuming systems.

But Gordon did plan, and the Joker loved plans. He never had any of his own, of course, but there was nothing more entertaining than watching as someone's plan fall to pieces in front of them. And his mind was built for twisting plans; all he had to do was give it a second thought and he could see exactly what needed to be done to break hours of hard planning.

It takes less than a pound of force to cut human flesh.

But this he gave more than just a second though, and the more he examined what this mysterious murderer had done, the more the only posible outcome solidified in his mind; he would be out of Arkham by tonight. He hadn't given escaping much thought; he hadn't gotten bored enough yet (though he had gotten out of his cell to leave a present for one of his ex-doctors and steal some M&M's).

Coulrophobia - fear of clowns. Geliophobia - fear of laughter. Xyrophobia - fear of razors.

Oh if curiosity could kill. There were plenty of fun things to keep him entertained once he got out; there was a new poison he had dreamed up one afternoon he wanted to try; he wanted to play with Batsy some more; he was long overdue to blow something up. But oh did he want to meet this new player, this new agent of chaos. And he was sure that's what they were; like called to like, and this was not the work of a schemer.

The guards opened his cell and pushed him inside without undoing the straitjacket. The Joker licked his lips and giggled as he watched the door close, and then proceeded to dislocate his shoulder. A few minutes later the beige material fell to the floor in a heap as he pulled out a deck of cards and began shuffling them mindlessly. All he had to do now was wait.


	4. Chapter 4

**Okay – the idea for this came to me while at work, so I had to try it out. This is supposed to be a teaser – almost a one shot about a chance meeting. It sounded good in my head, but I'm not sure now that it's all written out. If it sucks – it's not my fault. If it's awesome….I planned it that way?**

**Anyways – the next chapter will have more Joker and another glimpse at our mysterious murderer. It's my weekend project, so I hope it turns out okay.**

**I own nothing that isn't mine.**

Bruce Wayne stepped out of the elevator into the parking complex and his face immediately fell. It wasn't that he was unhappy or anything, but after a two hour lunch with some of the most pretensions business representatives he'd ever met while pretending to be merely a self-interested playboy, he wanted to express the disgust he'd felt through the whole thing. He was just grateful Fox had stayed on as WE's CEO. Aside from the technical support and friendship, it relieved him of going to most of these little lunches, and for some reason Lucius didn't mind them.

The billionaire took his time walking to his car since there was no one around to watch his serious expression and he had a lot on his mind. Forget business arrangements; his mind was focused solely on Ellen's murder and how the Joker might be involved. He'd been mulling over it all morning, especially after he watched the recording of Gordon's interview with the Joker he'd hacked into. Though you could never be sure with the Joker, the clown hadn't seemed to know anything, which meant that whoever had blown up cruiser 4165 was targeting him for some reason. Whatever the reason, Batman would be spending most of the night patrolling the Narrows, particularly around Arkham.

It wasn't till he had his hand on the door of his new Lamborghini that he noticed the girl making her way through the rows of empty parking spaces from the opposite direction. Bruce knew he must have been spacing not to have noticed her cheerful humming earlier. His eyes followed her as she passed him a few yards away. From this distance he guessed she was about 15, but that was more because of her maturing figure rather than her size. She was small enough that the two grocery bags in her arms seemed to weigh as much as she did. Despite their size, she appeared to be skipping in time with her humming.

Bruce wondered what a girl like that was doing in this floor of the parking structure. True – it was still daylight – but it was an enclosed space and he was the only other living soul in sight. He didn't wonder for long though, because the girl suddenly cried out; she had tripped over something and now she and her shopping were sprawled over the concrete. Bruce ran over to help her without thinking.

When he reached her he wasn't sure what surprised him more; the fact that her spilled shopping contained the oddest combination of items he could image, the fact that her small body was covered in scrapes, cuts, and bruises, that her left knee was bleeding freely from her fall, or the utterly blissful expression on her face. Her huge smile would be enough to convince him that nothing made her happier than hurting her knee while scattering all her…ammonia?

She looked up at him, her smile side as ever, and he remembered why he was standing there.

"Are you alright?" he asked as he extended his hand to help her up. Her smile never changed, but she did take his hand and let him pull her to her feet.

"I'm fine!" she chirped. "I'm very clumsy; I'm always falling down!" Her slight accent indicated she was from the Midwest, and her voice sounded as happy as her face looked. She reminded him of the rare girls in high school that could be happy every day and nice to everyone all the time. Those girls also tended to trust naively, which sent another wave of concern through Bruce.

"You know, this isn't exactly the best place to be walking through alone," he said as she began picking up the spilled contents of her bags. People new to Gotham often underrated how dangerous it could be even during the day.

"I know," she said, chipper as ever. He sighed as he bent down to help her, and then was again struck by how random her purchases were. There was the two gallons of ammonia, a pack of sewing needles, a high pressure garden hose nozzle, a half-dozen regulation hockey pucks, greasepaint, five pocket bibles, thread (which he supposed went with the needles), electrical wire, candle wicks, matches, and a bag of marshmallows. Bruce swallowed his questions and just helped refill the bags.

"Thanks for your help!" she said when the full bags were back in her arms. He couldn't help but smile back at her; her kind, cheerful expression was contagious.

"It wasn't any trouble; are you sure you don't want help carrying it…?" She just shook her head, her brown hair flying in all directions before skipping off. Bruce considered following her as he started his car, but decided against it when he saw her head towards the elevator.

He had sped through several floors when he spotted her again, skipping towards a black SUV. The front doors of the SUV opened suddenly and two large men hopped out, their faces covered by random Halloween masks. It was such a cliché situation Bruce was sure he was hallucinating; it took a moment to realize what he was seeing. He could recognize henchmen and mobsters when he saw them, but just as he was stepping on the gas the girl skipped right over to the men and dumped her bags into their arms. One of them took the bags and the other opened the back door for her and she hopped inside. A minute later the vehicle raced away, leaving Bruce wheeling.

He knew he should be thinking about tonight and the Joker, but he couldn't help wondering. Who was she? The daughter of a mobster? A criminal mastermind? Shooting a movie? Every explanation was as unlikely as the first, but he still beat his brain trying to come up with the answer the entire drive home.


	5. Chapter 5

**HOLY CRAP.**

**Okay – so I know I promised this was my weekend project, but I'm under constant attack by the distraction monster. Therefore, the only time I feel inspired is when I'm at work.**

**This is only half of what I was planning on writing over the weekend, it's longer than I expected, and I'm pretty sure it sucks. Obviously, nothing ever goes according to **_**plan**_** with me. I won't be updating again until next weekend, since I am driving across the country starting Thursday, though I'll hopefully get bored enough to write the next chapter! Sorry about the wait – blame that fucking distraction monster.**

**As always, special thanks to everyone who is alerted when I post new shit, and MORE thanks to reviewers. EXTRA thanks to the newly dubbed headoverjonas4life for the constant reviews and to alien26 for the suggestion. ****I finally get why writers like reviews…it's like crack!**

**I tried to post a link to the mystery girl's face paint, but i fail at internet. Google image 'harlequin mask on white' - it's the second pic, minus the teardrop.  
**

**As always, I'm a poor student who would not be as poor if I owned anything.**

"What are we waiting for, again?" Jones asked nervously for what seemed like the hundredth time that night. Officer Kenneth Gregs stifled an exasperated groan and sincerely hoped Gates would have the patience to answer the question; Gregs' nerves were already on edge. He didn't like hospitals or crazy people, so it was safe to say this assignment in Arkham wasn't his 'cup of tea.'

Luckily, Elizabeth Gates seemed to have nerves of steal and the patience of a god. Gregs looked on as Gates explained to the rookie why they were guarding the Joker's cell. He really didn't like thinking about the fact that not twenty feet from the three officers was the homicidal maniac who had killed more people within a week than the entire mob usually did in a year. Gregs supposed he should just be grateful that the door separating them from _him_ was steel and soundproof.

"_Beta team, how're things looking up there?"_ Lt Monroe's voice asked over the radio. Gates caught Gregs' eye and he pointed to himself letting her know that he'd answer. She still had her hands full trying to calm Jones down.

"Things are quiet up here so far, Lieutenant," he said into the radio. "How're things out there?" He couldn't help his curiosity; he'd much rather have been with the team currently guarding and searching the grounds of the asylum, or even the team back at MCU looking for the Jester's hideout. It wasn't even that the asylum made him nervous; he didn't like just waiting for the Jester to make a move.

The Jester…there was an original name, he thought sarcastically. But it was the name the unit had given Ellen's murderer; the whole situation had been so terrifyingly comparable to the Joker's terrorism that it wasn't surprising. What else do you call someone with no name or face – just a laugh that makes a grown man want to curl into a ball and hide?

"_So far the same,_" Monroe's voice replied. "_Gordon's ordered another sweep of the grounds._" Gregs still wasn't sure if he believed the Jester had picked that cruiser for its number, but when Gordon made little connections like this they usually turned out to be right. "_What the…_" Monroe's voice spoke up again. There was a bit of panic in her voice; Gregs suspected she'd forgotten the radio was still on. There was rustling in the background and a crunching noise. "_Shit,_" Monroe muttered under her breath before shouting directly into the radio. "_Beta team, there's been a breech on the second floor! Apprehend the intruder – I'm sending in the delta team to meet you._" The radio went silent. Gregs and Gates stared at each other for a moment before Gates snapped out of her daze.

"Okay, Jones, you stay here. Gregs and I will go down to meet the delta team," she said calmly. Jones nodded numbly and Gregs followed Gates to the stairs. The Joker was held in the maximum security wing on the fourth floor, which was only accessible by a single staircase. The two officers filed down that staircase, swiped the temporary security card Monroe had given Gates, and moved into the third floor. They had no sooner shut the security door behind them when the lights flickered.

"That's not good," Gregs muttered a second before the lights went out completely. Neither officer moved a muscle. There was a flicker, and then the night lighting came on. Gregs sighed in relief; even if it was dark and shadowy, at least they could see. A little.

"This hallway leads to maintenance," Gates said, pointing down the hall. "I think I can get the regular lights back up from there."

"How do you know that's maintenance?" Gregs demanded. He'd never pegged Gates as a frequent asylum visitor. Gates gave him an annoyed look and pointed her flashlight at the wall in front of them. The sign pointing to the left read 'kitchen,' the sign pointing to the right read 'maintenance.' "Oh…"

"You stay here; I'll see if I can fix the lights," Gates said. Gregs nodded; they couldn't do much searching in this dim light. Gates rounded a corner and disappeared. Gregs faced the direction of the kitchen, gun and flashlight raised together, and listened. He could just make out the sound of the delta team sweeping the floors below him. That was good – the delta team was made up of twenty other officers. His breathing hitched a bit as gunshots rang out, barely muffled by the two floors between them. Maybe they'd caught up to the intruder and taken her out…

Gregs' heart froze as Gates' ear-piercing scream filled the hall behind him. Without pausing to think, he turned around and ran towards maintenance. He forced his mind to stay blank as he passed the security door; he didn't want to think about what had caused the scream or why it suddenly died.

He paused for a moment before rounding the corner. There was something very wrong here…

"Hello!" came a cheerful voice from the shadows to his left. Gregs spun towards the voice instinctively, gun raised. The voice didn't belong to Gates, possibly an attacker? It didn't sound anything like the voice on the tape though either. This voice sounded happy – like the scream he'd just heard never happened. His gun pointed towards the corner so draped in shadow he could barely make out the medical cart parked there. There was no visible source of the voice, but still…

"Who's there?" Gregs demanded, hoping his voice sounded forceful. It was probably pointless to ask, but the eerie atmosphere of the corridor forced the question out. His only response was a child's laugh that echoed off the walls, bouncing until it seemed to be coming from every direction. Gregs' head darted around, trying to determine the true direction of its source.

"You don't need to look for me, Officer Gregs," the voice said, cheerful as ever. Something moved in that shadowy corner causing the officer's head to jerk back in that direction. From behind the medical cart and shadows rose a petite female figure. "I'm right here."

The girl that stepped into view of Gregs' light was small, barely five feet tall, and thin. He immediately noticed the odd way she was dressed; the girl wore a long sleeved peasant top patterned in brightly colored harlequin diamonds. The top ended at the thighs to reveal black leggings, but Gregs' eyes were drawn upwards to the face. The face was painted white, the lips black, the eyes painted on to give the girl a permanently happy expression, and over it all a brightly colored harlequin diamond pattern.

Under the painted mask the girl was smiling the most blissful smile Gregs had ever seen. It was as if all the happiness in the world had collected in one spot. The smile was so unchanging that had the officer not seen her lips moving he would have insisted it was a plastic mask.

"Where's Gates?" he demanded. The girl's smile was so happy and kind that the officer had to remind himself of Gates' scream in order to keep himself stern and focused.

"I'm sorry, but would you mind going back?" the girl asked, completely ignoring the officer's demand. The question was nothing but polite; there was nothing threatening or mocking in that happy face. He had to force herself not to return with an apologetic smile of his own. There was no way this delightful girl could have attacked Gates. That smile…you could end wars with a smile like that.

"I have to find her," Gregs said. Why was he explaining himself? Why wasn't he ordering the girl to get on the ground? She had to have noticed Gate's scream…she had to have!

"I'm really sorry, but I can't let you down there," was the reply. The smiling face changed ever so slightly; Gregs could see sincerity in her eyes. This girl was honestly, truely sorry. The officer was at a loss for words. How could someone so honestly polite have caused that scream?

"Who's there?" demanded a new voice from the shadowed corridor Gates had disappeared down. This voice, though female, was nothing like the girl's. This voice was low, demanding, and bored. This was the voice that had haunted Gotham; this was the voice that murdered Ellen and at least a dozen lackeys. Gregs froze, too shocked to turn and look. The psychopath was _here_ and if that video was any indication, she would have no problems killing either him or this girl.

"It's one of Monroe's officers," chirped the girl in front of him while turning towards the dark hallway. The girl wasn't frightened at all; if possible she seemed even happier than before. Gregs couldn't believe it; the polite, gentle looking girl was in league with the Jester?! It made no sense!

Then the laughing started.

It wasn't the blood-churning, insane laughter from the tape; it was more like Jester was remembering a funny story, but there was no denying the chill it sent down Gregs' spine. There was something sinister in that laugh, something that could make children cry and dogs growl. Gregs finally turned his head to look at the source. The figure moving towards him and the girl was odd-shaped and appeared to be moving awkwardly, as though dragging itself through the shadows.

"Ya know," the voice spoke up again after the laughter had died, low and bored as ever. "When I, uh, _heard_ that a clown in a purple suit was all it took to, uh, drive this city to the breaking point, I didn't believe it. But now?" Her pitch rose with the last word and she stifled a chuckle. Gregs' gun flashed around so it was now pointing directly at the shadowed Jester, which only let loose another badly contained giggle.

The speaker stepped into the light and Gregs saw why the figure was so misshapen, why it dragged through the shadows; it was Gates. Her body at least – if the blood that stained her uniform was any indication, she had died with her scream. Gregs didn't want to believe it; one of the bravest, most intelligent friends he had on the force and the Jester was flouncing her body around like a marionette. And even worse, Gregs still couldn't see what the bitch looked like, save for the purple-clad arm hooked around Gates' waist and the flashes of a dark purple pant-suit peeking around the body she was jerking around like a puppet. Her face was hidden behind Gates' head and shrouded in the shadows her long hair casted.

"What did you do to her?" Gregs demanded weakly. If he kept her talking he might be able to stall until the delta team caught up with them. A hand reached towards the dead woman's face and stroked the reddish-brown hair casting shadows on the blood-stained face.

"Why don't you _see _for yourself," Jester cackled. The limp form was shoved towards Gregs, who instinctively tried to catch and steady it. It wasn't until the dead weight sagged in his arms did he realize his mistake; in the moment his focus had been on Gates the Jester had moved quick as lightning around him. A second later, powerful arms pinned his arms against his torso – no matter how hard he struggled he couldn't break free.

"Course," her voice now came from behind his right ear. It was no longer bored and low, but high pitched and a bit giddy, which made it all the more terrifying. "It's not as fun when you just see it. No. No, no, it's far better if I _show _you instead. Girl!" she snapped suddenly. The small girl appeared in front of Gregs as though summoned by magic. Shit. He'd forgotten she was here.

The girl aimed the sweetest, most eager smile right at the face that Gregs couldn't turn to look at. There was a question in her eyes that clearly asked "what can I do for you?"

"I want you to show Officer Gregs here what happened to his, uh, lil' friend," Jester purred. There was no change in the girl's face. There was still that sweetness in her expression as she nodded quickly that now made Gregs sick. The girl pulled out a switchblade and looked right into Gregs' eyes and the feeling got worse.

There was no anger, hatred, or insanity in the girl's eyes. If anything, her eyes were happily apologetic, as though she were at a restaurant catching the eyes of someone after her table had just heard a hilarious joke. She was apologetic for the annoyance, but not really sorry.

The girl stepped right up to the officer, stretching on her tiptoes in order to comfortably reach his face. The powerful arms binding him forced him to bow down to meet his fate.

"Isn't she a good little pet?" the voice hissed in his ear as sweat poured down his face. The knife was tracing his cheek, stopping right at the corner of his eye. He couldn't move; he could barely draw in a full breath. Any courage he might have had left was now forming a smelly puddle at his feet. The girl was now happily concentrating on her task, though it was clear that the Jester's comment had made her even happier. "Such a pretty little thing; she does exactly as she's told," the voice whispered as Gregs felt the blade press into the corner of his eye socket.

A moment later the hallway filled with the sick, bone-chilling combination of sinister laughter and agonizing screams.


	6. Chapter 6

**Okay, I admit that when I said weekend I didn't mean 'in three weeks'. I assure you there is a perfectly ridiculous, violent, outlandish, and probably untrue reason for the long wait, but I'll have to make it up first. **

**I do apologize for the wait, and will attempt to not let it happen again…I think. I doubt I will be able to post more than once a week from now on since I'm no longer working a job where I sit at a computer all day. **

**Anyways, belated thanks to all readers, reviewers, and subscribers. I hope my inability to post regularly won't zap the few fans I have!**

**I own nothing that isn't mine – and on with the show!**

Still in his cell, the Joker was feeling very proud of himself; despite his immense curiosity, he'd stayed put. Even when he noticed the officers guarding him franticly shout into their radios before two of them raced off, he stayed put. It hadn't been easy – despite being able to act out the destruction of a plan over a period of days, even weeks, it took tremendous effort to sit and wait for things to play out. He had always been keen on the idea of instant gratification.

"Must mean I'm a, uh, _real_ American," he muttered to himself, his lips splitting into a mean grin.

There was a muffled shout coming from the hallway that sounded like the remaining officer – Jones was it? – outside his door. Though he willed himself to stay still, the Joker couldn't help the wide grin or the quiet giggling now hissing from his lips. A gunshot rang through the hallways, much clearer and louder than the muffled shots from two floors below, followed by the muffled shouts of the woken 'patients.'

The shots and shouts were exciting, but it was Jones' blood-curling scream and sudden silence that really interested the Joker.

There was the quiet beeping that indicated the door had been unlocked and a loud clanking as the door opened. He was on his feet now, standing a few yards from the opening door, comfortably slouched. Finally, _she_ stepped from the shadows of the dim hallway and into his cell.

Later, if there was time, he would ask her whether the purple pant suit was from the same little old tailor that had made his last suit. Right now he needed to study her face. The face that watched him was shifting rapidly from bored, to excited, and back to bored, as though the ideas popping into her head managed to entertain her for only a second before she was bored again. It was a feeling the Joker could identify with.

White make-up covered her face. The lips were painted black and were pulled to the side in a smirk. The Joker could picture how a crazed grin on that face would frighten, but it was the blackened eyes that would terrify. The lids were painted as black as his usually were, but thin black lines ran from above her eyebrows, across the middle of both eyes, and onto her upper cheeks.

The eyes didn't change with her mouth, and it was obvious why; the black lines were tracing long scars. The scars partially split the eyelids open, leaving a permanently open diamond frame for her irises. The disfiguration by itself would be hard to look at – most people would have wondered why the lids hadn't been reconstructed. The paint added to the image, but it was the expression those eyes conveyed that could really make a person shiver. Fury, indifference, excitement – there were so many emotions expressed in those eyes but there was only one word to describe them: cold.

"So," she said in a bored voice as her eyes roamed the room before passing over him. "You're the infamous Joker."

"So they, uh, say," he replied. As he waited to see what she would do now that they were face to face he glanced over her body which was leaning lazily against the doorframe. He guessed at her full height she was just over five and a half feet tall, but unlike his lean frame, her body was thicker than average. Though the pant suit made it hard to tell, he was sure the thick body was a result of strong muscles.

A moment later he forgot all that, because she finally looked him in the eyes. In that moment a sequence of events flashed in his mind. A knife flashed through the air towards him and missed its target; the two of them engaged in a frantic, vicious brawl; the black appearance of a gun as the knife flashed through the air once more; and finally, the hilt of the knife embedded in her neck as he clutched the bullet hole in his chest.

The Joker had been able to see sequences of events play out as long as he could remember – it was what made him such an effective agent of chaos. Predicting peoples' reactions and acting accordingly had always been as strait forward as mathematics to him, but never before had he been so certain of a series of actions that there was no need to actually carry them out. Nor had he ever instinctively known with such absolute certainty that she had seen exactly what he had.

And then it was gone; he saw her and only her – no knife, no gun. There was just her with a wicked grin on her lips; a grin he knew matched his own.

It had been a draw.

She started laughing; it was a crazed, deliciously psychotic laugh that echoed wonderfully off the walls of his cell. Had Jones still been alive, he probably would have soiled himself. The Joker couldn't help but add his own high-pitched laughter to hers. It was an odd sound, their combined laughter. It ended abruptly as either a tiny woman or an incredibly developed child pounced into the cell, her painted lips split in a smile so big it rivaled his own Cheshire grin. The girl's outfit was all the Joker needed to see to know she worked with the woman facing him, but he also noted her lack of interest in the girl's sudden appearance.

"The charges are all set!" she chirped cheerfully to the woman who turned towards her, a sudden excitement on her face before it resumed her original bored expression. Her emotion seemed to change a few times within a minute; he used the opportunity to study the girl. Besides her confusing stature and inhuman cheerfulness, there did not appear to be anything unusual or useful about her – why keep someone like that around? He wondered what would happen if he-

And suddenly something incredibly hard collided with the side of his face. He would have staggered backwards but his arms were being held painfully behind him, forcing him to crouch down nearly a foot as he felt the cool metal of a knife pressed against the corner of his eye.

"You don't touch her," she crooned.

Her face was not a foot from his; he could clearly see into the blue eyes staring at him through the split eyelids. In that moment he was sure of several things – the first being that she was fully aware he didn't care about the blow, the painful grip, or the knife. He knew she wasn't trying to scare or intimidate him; she was getting his attention. He was aware that she had used his distraction to appear to move so quickly; he was in fact faster than she was. Finally, her grip and the blow to his face told him that she was in fact stronger than him.

"A tad bit _pro_tective, aren't we?" he asked in his higher-pitched voice. She said nothing, but released him a moment later. He stood unusually strait for a moment, stretching his back.

"I don't like other people playing with my toys," she said simply as she pushed up the purple jacket's sleeve to check a golden wrist watch. The Joker glanced at the girl, wondering what her reaction to the whole situation would be. A moment later he had to admit to being surprised; the girl appeared to be, if possible, even happier than when she had first appeared. Though he hadn't gotten the chance to act, he had been about to kill her, and her companion had just made it clear that she was a possession. People weren't usually delighted by either situation, but there she was, literally bouncing with excitement with a smile so big and genuine it looked painful.

"Time to go," the woman said to the girl, who nodded and disappeared into the hallway again. She glanced back at the Joker. "I've made the first move – your turn now," was all she said before she turned around. A small, black object flew over her shoulder and landed at his feet as she left the cell. He stayed where he was for a moment; he wasn't supposed to follow. Instead he picked up the object she had tossed at him – it was a hockey puck.

A half an hour later the Joker and a handful of fresh recruits were driving a stolen SUV towards an old storage locker he had indirectly rented before his last dance with Batman. He had made sure to pay six months in advance in case he found something to occupy himself with in Arkham.

The storage lockers were in a fairly secure building, for Gotham, at least, but there were only a handful of night security guards to monitor the entrance. Since it was Gotham there was nothing suspicious about people wanting to get into their locker in the middle of the night, so the guard occupying the booth next to the security entrance barely glanced up from his computer until the vehicle had stopped.

"I'll need to see your key, security card, and ID," he said while holding out his hand without looking at the occupants. If he had, he might have noticed the Arkham uniforms all six men wore in time to press the silent alarm. He might have even noticed the front passenger's scarred cheeks before the Joker shot him in the head with the gun he had taken from Jones' corpse.

Now that had been delightfully gruesome. It had filled him with perverse excitement to exit his cell and find the body. The officer's eyes had been gruesomely slashed like hers, but the cheeks had also been cut open to resemble his own permanent smile – it was like a present for his getting-out party.

The SUV pulled up to the locker and the men crowded around it. The Joker didn't have the key anymore, of course, but he had been able to, uh, _borrow_ a lock breaker from the SWAT van before they made their quick exit. A few minutes later the men were moving the ambiguously marked cardboard boxes onto the cement and pulling their contents out. There was an arsenal of guns in the boxes marked "toys", some basic explosive material from ones marked "kitchen", an assortment of clothing that the other five grabbed out of "décor", fifty thousand dollars in "tools", and a single box labeled "bedding" that the Joker snatched and disappeared with.

Twenty minutes later he reappeared in a new suit exactly like the one Arkham had confiscated and his true face painted on again. With his scars now painted it was harder to tell his actually expression, but he had a smile on his face that would have rivaled Happy Girl's, as he had begun referring to her in head. For the first time in weeks he felt like _himself_.

"What now, boss?" one of his new thugs asked. The Joker thought back to the hockey puck he had left in his cell. It was a regulation puck – the brand used by the Gotham Blades. The Joker knew next to nothing about hockey, but the police would grab onto it and squeeze every scrap of evidence they could from it. All he had to do was wait.

He hated waiting.

"Well, we have a day or so to, uh, to _kill_, so I say we have a bit of _fun_. I think the first order of, uh, business will be a small spree of random _des_truction…"


	7. Chapter 7

**Okay...sorry? I know I promised more frequent updates but school does funny things to motivation...**

**Anyways - much thanks to my new-but-not-so-new beta, hehe.boom! **

**This chapter isn't as exciting as the the others, but I felt it was nessassary for the storyline.**

**As usual, I own nothing that isn't mine!**

Lt. Lisa Monroe waited impatiently by the door of the forensics lab for the results of the hockey puck analysis. After hours of scrubbing Arkham for evidence, the puck left in the Joker's cell was all MCU had to go on.

The operation at the asylum had been a total and utter failure, to say the least. The Jester had distracted the Delta team with henchmen on the second floor while she brutally murdered the Beta team and released the Joker. Now three officers were dead, a half dozen more were in the hospital, two murderous sociopaths were loose, the one prisoner they had captured was useless, _and_ after watching the security footage of the fourth floor they learned that the Jester had an accomplice.

Just the thought of the footage made Monroe furious; the Jester had set a timer before she cut the power to the security cameras. They ran just long enough to catch her and her young partner kill Gates, Gregs, and Jones. When she had first seen it, the lieutenant had been sick to see the Jester using a young girl, but she soon realized the girl was just as deranged as her partner. To top it off, the Jester had looked right into the camera and the girl had waved right before the power was cut, like it was a performance.

The door to the lab opened. Monroe pounced on the haggard scientist who appeared holding a thin file.

"What do you got, Hank?" she demanded. He wearily handed over the file, which she snatched and opened. She almost winced at the tone of her voice and she felt for the poor man; he usually wasn't expected to pull a twelve hour shift starting at 3 in the morning. Unfortunately, the whole MCU was frantic over the events of last night – there wasn't much room for sympathy.

"We found one print – belongs to a man named David Hutchkin." Hank said as she glanced over the file. The name rang a bell.

"Hutchkin…Hutchkin…damn. Hutchkin is one of the henchmen that died in the crossfire last night. Freelance grunt with no real connections. Anything else?"

"There was nothing distinct about the puck, but the commissioner requested we compile all possible information. I've included the brand, team, price, even the factory it was made in." Monroe skimmed the file quickly before snapping it shut again.

"Well, I don't know what Gordon wants with it, but good job. Now go home, Hank – you look ready to drop," she said as she turned back towards the offices. Hank nodded with an attempt at a smile and headed back into the lab. The lieutenant had made it halfway through the office part of MCU when Inspector Keath demanded her attention.

"This better be important, inspector," she said with a warning in her voice. Gordon was waiting for the file; the man was turning out to be a wonderful commissioner, but he didn't sit well.

"It's about last night's Joker destruction," Keath said nervously. Monroe sighed; the Joker's spree of arson, small explosions, and theft was yet another thing to deal with. Gordon had warned her that the Joker always had a reason behind his crimes and that it was up to the MCU to figure it out.

"Fine – just give me a moment." She grabbed the arm of the first officer to pass by. "Take this to the commissioner's office," she ordered as she pressed the file into his hands. "Tell him that I'll be there in twenty minutes."

"But I was-" the man started to say, but Monroe cut him off.

"Now!" she said in a commanding tone. He scampered off. Monroe didn't always like her naturally commanding tone, but it had helped her get her current position and she was good at her job so far. She turned back to Keath. "What do you got?"

"I've been going over the list of places the Joker hit, and I've been trying to find a pattern. There are a few possibilities so far. The first connection is between the places he blew up; either their names or the names of the owners or managers all contained the letters D-E-N-T."

"Harvey," Monroe muttered. Keath nodded.

"That's not all though; I found a similar connection between the places he set fire to; they all contain letters that spell 'liar.'"

"And the places that reported thefts?"

"It's harder to determine which thefts were actually the Joker and which were due to the city's usual crooks, but the sites where he left some sort of signature all can spell 'haha' with their names."

"When was the last Joker crime reported?"

"Just a half hour ago. There has been no pattern as to _when_ he's been striking, but I think I might have found a pattern to _where_." Keath pointed to his computer screen and highlighted the places struck since last night. There was a concentration around the storage locker where MCU determined he had stored supplies in months before, then a curved line below it.

"You think he's just moving in a line?" she asked. He shook his head.

"He likes to perform, to leave a mark. Look what happens if I mirror the image…" a click of his mouse and he leaned away from his screen so Monroe could see. It was a perfect smiling face.

"You're serious?" Monroe asked "You think buildings along the smile will be targeted next?" Keath looked nervous in the face of her scrutiny, but held his ground.

"I've already compiled a list of homes and businesses that fit his pattern," he said as he handed her a list. "The one that really concerns me is located here," he pointed to the projected second eye. "It's David Hall Elementary School." Monroe whistled.

"No way it's a coincidence. Get some officers on informing people on the list. Call the school and send the kids home. Send in a bomb squad – I want every inch of that school searched." She left Keath to put the squad together and headed towards Gordon's office. At least they had something to go on now.

Twenty minutes later she knocked on the commissioner's door before barging into his office, catching him in the process of putting his coat on. Despite the gravity of the situation, Monroe's lips turned up into a small smile; the man really wasn't used to sitting in an office.

"No need to leave, commissioner; I'm here," she said, alerting him to her presence. Gordon's exhausted eyes met hers. She wondered if he had even heard her knock; she was sure he was running on coffee and anxiety alone.

"Lieutenant! I expected you a half-hour ago," he said as he slid out of the coat again and sat back down behind the desk.

"I was delayed by Keath. He's managed to identify a pattern to the Joker's crime streak and identify possible next targets." Gordon perked up at these words; any progress on the Joker was good news. "Our biggest concern is an elementary school; I've ordered it be evacuated and swept. Other targets are being informed as we speak." Gordon nodded his approval.

"What about the Jester? Do we have anything new where she is concerned?" he asked hopefully. Monroe gave him an odd look.

"Didn't my messenger give you the file from forensics?" she asked, feeling suddenly chilled. MCU was crawling with officers transferred temporarily to deal with the Jester crisis and she didn't know everyone yet, but right now she was desperate to recall the face of the officer she had sent over. A flash of a name tag ran through her mind. "Thompson – it was an officer Thompson."

Gordon was suddenly looking very alert. "No one from MCU has been here since noon, and no one has delivered anything to me, much less from forensics." Monroe had her cell phone out before Gordon had finished his sentence and a moment later was speaking with MCU. Gordon was on his feet and walking with her towards the door when she snapped the device shut. "No one remembers seeing Officer Thompson at work today."

"I'm going with you," Gordon said as he grabbed his coat. "I'd bet my next paycheck the Joker now has that forensics file. The information is all replaceable, but I'm afraid to find out what happened to Thompson." She didn't bother arguing.

/BREAK/

An hour later a SWAT team burst through Derek Thompson's door to find him dead in his kitchen with a horrible grin cut into his face. 'HAHA' was written in blood all over the room.

Fifteen minutes after that David Halls Elementary was emptied so the police could begin their search. Hours later they had found nothing.

Fifteen minutes after that a nondescript van pulled into the driveway of a suburban house. A petite woman jumped up from her spot on the porch and ran inside. Moments later the garage door opened and the van pulled inside.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N – *very long drawn out awkward sigh* Hiiiii…. So yeah….someone randomly added the story to their watch list, which caused an email to appear in my inbox, which prompted me to reread what I had done, which prompted me to think about where the story could go, which in the end prompted the idea for this and the next chapter. I don't know if I'll keep going after the next chapter – we'll see. Please keep in mind that I wrote the beginning of both scenes of this chapter over a year and a half ago, came down with writer's block, then got bored BEFORE trying to pick up where I left off. My beta reader (sister) said the beginning doesn't flow quite right, but I think in order to move on you're all just going to have to deal with it BWAHAHAHA!**

Since Dent's death and the murder charges were brought up against him, Batman had not made a habit of hanging around the Police Commissioner's office. Unfortunately, current circumstances made the meeting necessary.

"I agree with you," Gordon was saying. "But I don't think anything I say will change Garcia's mind. He is as determined to have the dinner as ever. He won't even consider an alternate location for the damned event."

Gordon was referring to Garcia's benefactor dinner; it was a dinner to thank past campaign donors and make connections with future ones. Everyone with any kind of money within the city was invited. Unfortunately, one of those benefactors was the Cobblepot family, and Garcia had agreed to use the Iceberg Lounge, the ritzy nightclub owned by the younger brother, as the dinner's location.

Francis, the chosen heir of the Cobblepot fortune, was a fairly greedy man who would probably ruin his family in a decade or two, and his younger brother, Oswald, was even worse. Oswald was furious to be cut off from the majority of the family money when the elder Cobblepots met their suspicious end. Though his yearly stipend was far from meager, his lust for wealth and status was seemingly unquenchable. He'd opened the exclusive nightclub a few years ago so he could socialize among Gotham's elite without being overshadowed by his older brother. Which would not have bothered Batman at all if he didn't know Gotham's elite personally.

"Do you think they'll target the dinner?" Gordon asked, referring to the Jester/Joker problem. He thought about the funeral procession which had lead to his faked death. If they knew there would be a terrorist threat they could attempt to prepare, but right now the police didn't have the manpower to spare half a unit to guard the place arbitrarily.

"If it was the Joker alone, no," Batman growled back. "As random as he is, he does have a pattern. He sends warnings to taunt his opponents; it's a game to him. However," Gordon's head bowed at the reluctant acknowledgment.

"He specializes in being unpredictable," Gordon finished for him. "And we have no idea if the Jester shares this pattern. The fact that they're most likely planning something together means we have absolutely no idea if and when they'll strike."

Gordon looked up when he felt a breeze to his side; Batman was gone. He sighed; even knowing Batman had to reopen the window five feet away in order to exit the office, he still hadn't noticed. Sometimes he wished he could meet the man under the mask, or at least sit down with him long enough to ask a few questions – such as where exactly does someone learn how to vanish into thin air?

Shaking his head to clean his mind of useless ponderings he focused on the more daunting event of the benefactor dinner. Not only did he have to worry about looming terrorism, but as Commissioner he had to actually attend the party. Trying to keep track of security and terrorist was hard enough, but add to that the stiffness of a tuxedo and the discomfort of pretending you have anything in common with the trust-fund brigade, as Harvey had once called them, and faking his own death again was sounding like a better idea by the hour.

***the next day***

Somewhere in the suburbs of Gotham, a psychopath was leaning against a table in a basement in his shirtsleeves, staring at a table of elements with a bowl of microwave popcorn at his side. His mind, as usual, was entertaining itself as he thought.

Cadmium – toxic. "Death."

His tone was neutral; someone could almost call it his normal voice if it wasn't so creepy. There were white boards around him; the walls were covered in equations and random thoughts. The Joker himself was mildly pleased; it had taken him less time to develop the vicious little concoction than predicted.

Iodine 129 and 131 – emits lethal levels of beta and gamma radiation respectively. "Death. Death."

All his tests had been successful; the cages around him were proof of it. All he needed now was a human test subject. He sighed – henchmen were never too happy to come down to his 'lab' in the first place – it would be a pain, but a human test subject was _essential_ to his project.

Cesium 137 – also emits lethal levels of beta and gamma radiation. "Death."

Fine – it wasn't essential; he just wanted to see it in action.

Mercury, Thallium, Lead – all toxic in small amounts. "Death. Death. Death."

There was a light knock on the door and the Joker gritted his teeth as Happy-Girl bounced into the room. After almost two weeks in the Jester's hideout, he still wasn't sure if he didn't mind the girl, or hated her. There were times when the only thing stopping him from cutting her face open was his desire to play out his game with the Jester. However, there had been a number of times when watching her execute anything from henchmen to one of her many pets with that creepily genuine smile was incredibly entertaining.

"What'cha doin', Jo?"

On the other hand, he was fairly certain he hated the nickname she had given him an hour after he had entered the house. In retaliation he had given both the Jester and her companion nicknames, but unfortunately neither of them showed any irritation with it. In fact the girl seemed to respond to anything, and most of the henchmen just called her Girl.

"What _are_ you _do_-ing here?" he asked, watching her for a moment. "Did Jes send you to, uh, _kill_ me?"

"Nope!" she chirped. She shook her head, which made her pigtails fly wildly around her head, and skipped up to the cage that held almost two dozen lab mice. The Joker turned back to his chart as she selected one and began petting it.

Radon – emits lethal amounts of alpha radiation. "Death." Radium – emits lethal levels of alpha and gamma radiation. "Death."

"What'cha do'in?" she repeated her question as she lifted the mouse in the air and made it soar around. "Still work'in on that chemistry project?"

Thorium – emits lethal levels of alpha and gamma radiation. "Death," the Joker replied. He ate a handful of popcorn and turned back towards the girl. "Most elements are so _bor_ing; the only way to kill someone with them is to de_prive_ or, or to force more into them than they're used to." "Some elements," his tongue flicked the corner of his mouth and disappeared again. "Some elements or isotopes will just kill you. Plu-tonium emits lethal levels of alpha, beta, and gamma rad-i-ation. Death. You know that mouse is dead?"

The girl smiled happily as she nodded. "It's still fuzzy, and it doesn't scream when I do this!" The Joker had to grin as she twisted the head off the dead rodent.

"I thought you _liked_ it when they scream," Joker said. The first ten minutes of that dog's pained barking had been amusing, but after an hour he had enough.

"It depends what mood she's in!" was the cheerful reply. Happy-Girl never called the Jester by any name other than Ma'am. Joker had noticed a fresh bruise around the girl's arm. The Jester did with the girl what she wanted to, and each cut and bruise only made the girl smile. Joker was grateful that the recent injuries probably meant no more screaming animals for a while. "So does this mean you're done with your science experiment?" Happy asked excitedly, having discarded the mouse carcass. "What's it do?"

"Why don't I, uh, show you?" Joker asked with a glint in his eye and a poorly suppressed grin on his face. "I've been looking for a, a _human_ test sub-ject." His less-than-subtle threat was met with giggling.

"You're silly, Jo," she told him. He was about to slash her throat when she piped up again. "Want me to get'cha a henchman?" Now Joker was curious; the henchmen were nervous about coming down to the basement, and it was no secret Jester and he scared them, but they were equally scared of her, if not more-so. He doubted she could get any of them to come willingly, and she wasn't strong enough to force anyone to do anything.

Ten minutes later she returned with an unusually calm henchman. Though he went through henchmen quicker than a jackrabbit on fire, he had made a note that this man had been smart enough to avoid spending too much time with any of the psychopaths (which admittedly sounds like common sense, but finding a grunt with any of _that_ was a tricky art in and of itself). The man was calm as he sat down on a chair in the middle of the lab, calm when the Joker approached him humming some unknown tune, and calm when he plunged a syringe into his neck. They waited.

"What-?" Happy started to ask, but was cut off by the henchman. The man had started to sweat, and finally looked scared instead of calm. His breathing started to hitch, as though he couldn't get enough air, and every gasping breath was accompanied by a 'ha' that sounded nothing but painful. His wide eyes were terrified and panicked, but the corners of his gasping mouth were being chemically forced upwards into a terrible, dying grin.

It took only ten minutes for the man to die, but even as his body collapsed and the 'ha's stopped, but his mouth remained in that terrifyingly delightful grin. Happy squealed and clapped in delight; the Joker laughed and jumped towards to corpse, clearly excited.

"Might have uh, uh, been too _high_ a dose," he said when he finally stopped laughing. "Imagine what a _gas_ form of this could do to a, a crowd." It was easy to tell when he was excited or manipulating people, because he stuttered more and his tone fluctuated. The fact that he usually sounded that way…well that wasn't his problem, now was it?

"High dose of what?" asked a bored voice. Happy bounced out of her stool as the Jester entered the room. Joker simply observed as the Jester's boot rotated the henchman's body; her hands never left her jean pockets. In the short amount of time they had spent together he had managed to discover very little about his new companions, especially her. He knew she was bored, and this game between them would end when she tired of it. He knew that while her expressions and voice were indeed as deliciously creepy as his, her adoption of facepaint, the purple pantsuit, and stuttering were just that – an adoption meant to scare the masses. The two never mentioned where they had been before they came to Gotham and when asked why their response was that they looking for some excitement.

Her eyes, which were actually more disturbing without the paint since the scars and split eyelids were more noticeable, met his. Neither moved for a long minute while another sequence of events played out between their minds. It was a test and a reason to continue working together – as long as they couldn't calculate the other's death, they remained interested enough to stay.

"It's a chemistry projects Jo's been work'in on!" piped up Happy. The Joker didn't know whether or not she knew about the mind game between him and the Jester, but she always seemed to know when the game was over and stayed silent until then. The Jester broke his gaze to look at the girl with a hint of a grin on her face. Stalemate again – but interesting use of the whiteboard and soap.

As she glanced back at the result of the 'chemistry project' a wide, clear grin spread over her face – a sure sign she had just thought of something…entertaining.

"You know, I've been thinking it's been getting too boring around here," she said. Her face kept twitching between her usual bored expression and excitement, and her tone fluctuating accordingly. "A…friend…told me about a party later on tonight, and I think your lit-tle project is just the _spice_ it needs."

**POST NOTE: My sister also mentioned to me that the Joker seemed very sane in this chapter. After thinking about it I decided to leave him alone for several reasons – 1) I wanted to move on. 2) He is a psychopath, and psychopaths think they are sane – "The only sane way to live in this world is without rules."**


End file.
